This Valentine's Not Inclined
by Mangykneazle
Summary: Valentine's Day is three weeks away. What else could go wrong? M for language and later situations. Ginny's POV Under revision.
1. Doldrums

**A/N: **I own nothing herein.

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**This Valentine's Not Inclined**

Valentine's Day. The bane of singletons, the curse of couples. Or 14 February to you and me.

It's three weeks away, and the pairing off is reaching panic levels. Would that I could just scarper.

It's not fear, you see, but dread. Not so much from the sight of young lovers mooning over one another. That numbs me. Nor does my malaise stem from witnessing the pained anxiety as the boys seek anything their girlfriends will actually like while the girls wonder how far they'd be willing to go. No. It's the chase that worries me.

I should have known Katie wasn't lying about boys chasing after we queens of Quidditch, especially after that git fawned over Cho for _three fecking years_. Wanker. 'Our fit young bodies drive them mad with lust,' Katie swore as we emerged from the changing rooms after our last Quidditch match, smiling seductively at some seventh-year from Ravenclaw. She doesn't need to flirt, but more practice never hurts.

So far, eight have asked me to go to Hogsmeade with them, three of whom proposedgoing a little further. I'm glad I've expanded my repertoire of hexes beyond the old stand-by; so many were prepared for the Bat Bogeys.

May just end up going with Neville. Least he won't try anything. Well, after the Department of Mysteries...

Ah, Hermione and the idiot. Followed by the prat. Scowling already? Not even gone eleven. Must have been hiding that one away, like the Twins did their Firewhisky, so lovingly bequeathed to their most beautiful and talented sister, provided I don't get pished and start snogging every Gryffindor boy from fifth year up. A sufficiently maternal grimace ensured they didn't take that proscription any further. Like he'd notice anyway.

'Hey Ginny.' I am surprised. He deigns to initiate a conversation with me, or more pointedly one that doesn't begin with a lecture about proper Defence or Quidditch techniques.

'Harry.' Tosser.

He slumps down into the next chair, frowning with even greater intensity at Ron and Hermione. Don't tell me the git fell for Hermione now. Maybe Ron might finally knock some sense into the git, though.

'If I hear them say one more bloody thing about Valentine's Day, I'll spew.' First sensible thing he's said in months. I guess that deserves a grunt in agreement.

'So, who you going with?' he asks, still glaring at the young couple. Harry, Harry, always falling for the taken ones. Just desserts, I say.

'I've already six brothers; I don't want another.' He raises his hands in surrender and has the decency to look apologetic. At least he's stopped glowering at those two. There's a hint of devilry in his eyes as he looks at me.

'Dunno. Dean's going with Parvati.'

He raises an eyebrow. Parvati had forgiven Harry for the Yule Ball debacle and had begun flirting with him in their sixth year. Thinly veiled hints, sly winks, 'careless' or guiding hands showed him all he needed to know, had he not been so bloody naïve. Maybe it was an act. Judging from his behaviour, I don't think so. He was dead tempted — well, he blushed a lot, stammered a bit, and was dead nervous every time she came near — but as she wasn't seeing anyone, she wasn't interesting enough. Until Dean came along. I doubt Parvati knew what hit her when Dean applied the full measure of his charm in her direction. Didn't hurt that he actually paid attention to her. Berk. (Harry, not Dean.)

If only Dean and I hadn't argued before Christmas... I don't even know why now. Spending too much time on Quidditch? In the library studying for my OWLs? Didn't let him go far enough? No, despite being Seamus's friend, Dean's a gentleman. Then again, he did leave me for Parvati. Harry and Dean're both berks. 'Mebbe Neville.'

Shock and surprise, Harry nods appreciatively. 'Decent bloke, Neville.'

'I think so,' I mutter, growing increasingly tired of the turn this conversation's taking. Noting the challenge in my voice, he rises from the chair and avoids my gaze. 'Who're you taking?' _Stupid, stupid._ Look peeved.

'Luna, perhaps.' I never... He mightn't be such a complete wanker after all. 'Just as long as she doesn't suggest Madam Puddifoot's.' The mere mention of the name causes us both to shudder. Michael had taken me there once, after which I vowed never again. I've never been anywhere so bloody tacky. Established for boys desirous of post-prandial knicker-snapping. No thanks.

'That's very mature of you, Mr Potter.'

'Don't be so shocked, Miss Weasley. Even us childish gits have our moments.' He grins. _Ah, so he overheard me talking to Parvati._ I grace him with a sardonic smile.

'We'll see.' Daft arse.

Instead of the expected grumble, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. 'There's me believing you knew me so well,' he groans as he makes his way to the boys' dormitories. I can't help watching him trundle past Ron and Hermione – once more raising his eyes towards the ceiling and shaking his messy mane – up the staircase, not bothering to turn around to catch me staring furiously at him.

Git.

No longer able to stand Colin's pleading looks or the leers of the other Gryffindor lads, I venture forth in search of Luna.

Where she might be, I've no idea. That girl has made unpredictability an art form. Likely, she's pestering poor Hagrid to believe her strange tales about Crumple Horned Snorkacks, Heliotropes, or furry salamanders. Now that Ron has finally made his feelings known to all, she's been more reluctant to include herself in our tiny circle. I've convinced Harry to help me to drag her from her pleasant little world and back into reality. Neville tries as well, but he can only take so much insane rambling before he invents an excuse to leave. Harry, being the peculiar little sod he is, simply accepts Luna for who she is. There I went playing Emma and Mr Knightley fell for Harriet. _Sodding Hermione and her Muggle books._

Yes, Luna and I really must talk.


	2. The Conversation

**A/N:** Still Ginny's POV and I still own none of this.

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This Valentine's Not Inclined

Ch. 2 – The Conversation

Where is that bloody Luna hiding? I've hunted fruitlessly all over the Castle and grounds for her. How hard can it be to find a butterbeer cork obsessed blonde? Obviously, very.

Instead of encountering Luna at Hagrid's, there was Neville. Couldn't have been more awkward.

Hagrid's busying himself brewing tea, leaving a quarry of scones before us. After exchanging pleasantries and some small talk, Neville and I fell into an awkward silence. We generally get along famously. Unlike the two prats, he's generally comfortable around girls, or at least Hermione and me. But he decided to become such a _boy_ about things. I like Neville, sincerely, but in the present circumstances I've no desire to be stroking egos or anything else. Besides, I'd groomed him for Luna – that worked splendidly, didn't it? – but the git fancies her now. So, I'm stuck with Mr Elton (_sodding Hermione_). 'What is it, Neville?' I hissed, causing him to start. OK, so I was being a bit rude.

There was yearning in his eyes. _Sodding buggery._ I didn't want to feed him platitudes because... Because I can see myself falling for him now he's gained some confidence, well, more than he had before. 'Ginny, would you go with me the next Hogsmeade weekend?' Better out than in, they say. _Lying bastards._ I felt myself wince before I could stop it. Instead of looking away, grumbling, or bellowing like some berks I know, he nodded quietly, almost sympathetically. 'Harry, isn't it?'

And that's when Hagrid scalded himself. Well...

'Why does everybody assume I'm still pining for that bloody prat?' ...ah, now Hagrid pours tea on himself rather than in the mug... '_Maybe_ I just need to concentrate on my studies, hmm? This is my OWL year, you know!' I towered over Neville, glaring down at him, astonished that I'd risen at all.

Unlike Hagrid, Neville's unimpressed. He's spent far too much time around Harry, you see, and has grown accustomed to the odd explosion. Much like we inhabitants of the Burrow when the Twins lived there. Neville was worried, though. 'We could just go as friends.'

Slumping back into the chair, I apologised to him explaining that the coming exams and Hermione's perpetual badgering to swot until my eyes bled was doing my head in. Kindly, he patted my hand. He was clever enough to remove it before I'd taken the gesture as something else.

'Why don't you ask Luna?' the cunning little fiend in my mind prodded.

Unfortunately, Neville shuddered. He might be a kinder Mr Elton, but Luna's still Harriet. 'She frightens me,' he murmurs to the scones. Hagrid seemed preoccupied with cleaning his stove just loudly enough to conceal his eavesdropping. 'She's so... er, dotty.'

'Mr Potty likes 'em dotty.' _I still can't believe I said that._

Noticing the colour coming to my cheeks, he was quick to add, 'Not that she isn't a nice girl...'

Where is that bloody tea?

Caught with nothing else to preoccupy my wits, I toyed with the notion of breaking my teeth on Hagrid's baked goods. As I was about to commit denticide, Neville broke the silence.

'So?'

What the hell. 'Sounds fine, Neville.' I smiled at him broadly and honestly and clasped his hand. Only briefly, lest he get any mistaken notions. If he tries anything between now and that sodding weekend, Mr Longbottom will be short-lived. Poor loyal Neville.

After which came two wasted hours searching for Miss Lovegood. Then Hermione's endlessly repeated admonitions about the OWLs seeped into my consciousness. Grabbing my books and avoiding the looks of the lads for a second time, I scarpered to the library. In any case, there was always dinner...

But there Luna was, butterbeer cork necklace and all, peering at her textbook on Transfiguration scribbling down additional notes with a rook's feather.

'Oh, hello, Ginny,' she smiles sweetly. 'Looking for Harry? He was just here.'

_Remember you're in a library and that you have questions._ Grinning politely to hide my irritation and to stop from rolling my eyes, I convince her to take a short break with me in the Room of Requirement.

'It's a pity Nargles breed before Valentine's day,' Luna laments. What the bugger are Nargles?

'Er, what?'

'Nargles, Ginny,' she explains with exasperation. 'You know, nature's aphrodisiacs.'

Perfect. Just what Hogwarts needs, organic lust enhancers among the hormonally befuddled. 'Yeah, how unfortunate we are.'

She giggles. That's why I like Luna. She never takes my sarcasm too seriously, unlike _some_ people. _Cough_ Hermione _cough_. 'I'm sure there is _someone_ you would like to test them on,' Luna chuckles daintily.

And that's what annoys me about her. She divines things. Often by accident, but she's too clever by half as well. I can't hate her for her talent, either, because she has a certain elegant – what's that term Hermione used? – _je ne sais quoi_ about her. 'But he's taken, isn't he?' Meaning Dean.

'Perhaps.' Now that's just bloody infuriating.

Girning puzzlement, I prod her for her insights. 'What d'you mean?'

'You shouldn't look so frustrated,' she chides. 'What's that silly cliché? _Good things come to those that wait._'

What a load of bollocks. 'What about, _Fortune favours the brave?_'

'That must be a Gryffindor one,' she concludes.

My impatience gets the better of me, causing me to blurt, 'Listen, Luna, about...'

And then, of all bloody people, that festering canker on the arse of wizarding society shows himself.

'Weaselette, I hear you're going with Longbottom of all people,' Malfoy sneers. 'I guess those without must stick together.' The git grins confidently, believing that I'm as unable to deliver a come back as the two berks.

'Piss off, you fatuous little wanker,' I growl drawing my wand, 'or else those bats will emerge from somewhere else.' Looking at where my wand is pointing and knowing I'm more than willing to risk detention, he hikes up his robes and flees.

Still, I'm surprised he discovered that bit of gossip so quickly, but Luna more so... 'Ginny, I thought you were a friend,' she murmurs with a tear trailing down her cheek, leaving me alone and speechless.

_Feck._

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Next chapter: Moon and Sun**

**A/N2:** Apologies for the delay and the angst-ridden chapter. I'll aim for more humour in the coming ones.

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To **Vanessa-Black and Zabini,** thank you very much for your kind review. I've no idea how long this story will be, only how it will end. (And chocolate is a **_very_** good bribe. :) ) 


	3. Moon and Sun

**This Valentine's Not Inclined**

Ch.3 – Moon and Sun

_**29 January, V-Day minus 16**_

Damn it all.

Four days of chasing about after Luna without success. I've collided with Harry (the git) a number of times and told him repeatedly I wanted to apologise to her, but I might as well have asked the walls. If I'd known she'd felt so seriously about Neville – if I hadn't been as dim as the prat – I never would have accepted his invitation. No, considering the alternatives, I still would have. _Damn and feck._

Not that Neville hasn't made a right nuisance of himself lately. The sidelong glances, the awkward attempts at light conversation, the cloying mannerisms. I've no doubt a trip to Madam Puddifoot's is in the works. _Merlin, save me now!_

It was worth a try.

Storming out of a disappointing Charms class, in which I'd managed to banish a quill into an inch-thick plank of oak (regrettably it was part of Professor Flitwick's rostrum, earning me detention and a stern after-class reprimand – I was astonished), the thunderclouds raging over my head, I saw him. Harry. The berk himself. Talking with some young woman with long flowing brown hair who was behaving all too familiarly with him. An unbecoming rage billows within me. _I'll kill him._ For Luna, of course. As I surge towards them I hear a pair of easily recognisable female laughs, and a blonde with slightly bulbous eyes latched onto Harry's arm like a limpet. Dropping my satchel unceremoniously onto the stone floor, I announce my presence nearby with a resounding thump and the shattering of inkpots.

'Er, hi, Tonks, Luna,' and pause to glower, 'Harry,' I splutter, bending to repair the mess I made before Filch gives me detention. I take in the prat's face long enough to see his grin fade into a frustrated frown. Three pairs of feet scutter towards me to assist.

'Hello, Ginny,' Luna finally replies in her somnambulist's voice with a genuine smile. She placed a placatory finger onto my lips quelling my apology before it had the chance to leave. Harry gently pries a book from my hand, inspects it for damage, and replaces it in my restored bag, continuing on to make the occasional repairs to my other texts. His hands graze mine more frequently than they have cause, earning the odd quick slap from me. Tonks reassembles my inkpots, irretrievably empty, and stores them safely in my satchel.

'You're becoming as clumsy as I am,' Tonks says with a faint laugh. _You're too kind, Nymphadora._ I bite back that and other appropriate retorts, managing only a grumbled, 'Thanks.'

'Why are you here, Tonks?' I ask a mite more sharply than I intended.

'Didn't Harry tell you?' Since when did that git tell me anything without being hounded? His face darkens and Luna scowls at him.

'After all she's done for us,' the younger woman chunters, the trace of a smile crossing her lips.

'Er, right,' the Auror answers Luna. An expression of utter incredulity mirrors that on my face provoking a giggle from Luna and a snicker from Harry. All very happy families now, Miss Lovegood.

He glances at me briefly, the smirking twit, and I feel the fury burgeoning again. His grin fades swiftly, replaced by an aggrieved grimace and a surly tone. 'We best let Tonks explain it to you, then.'

With the task of correcting my errors complete, the Metamorphmagus reveals her sordid little secret. 'Well, Ginny, you know how the Death Eaters are becoming more of a menace.' Who bloody doesn't? 'And that there have been some incidents nearby.' Yes, yes, I do read _The Daily Prophet_ on occasion. For my sins. These pauses are driving me mad. Yet this time she peers up and down the corridor seeing off any stragglers. 'Dumbledore expects they'll attack next Hogsmeade weekend, unless it's cancelled.' Oh, what a pity. Back to the broom cupboards with the lot of them. 'So he's going to give each of the Houses, and their associated _friends_,' do grow up, Tonks, 'a day within Hogsmeade as he sees it in the Room of Requirement.'

Sod and bugger.

'I know things look grim right now, Ginny,' she begins. I won't let her finish that foolish thought, however.

'I'm going with Neville.'

She bears the visage of one struck full on with a _Confundus_ Charm. 'He's...' say it, 'nice.'

'Yes, he is.'

'What did...'

'Who gives a sodding damn what that little prick thinks,' I hiss.

Her response takes me aback. A maternal glower washes over me, managed without even the slightest actual metamorphosis, as she dresses me down. 'I meant your brother, you foul-mouthed ickle git.'

'So did I.' We both know we're lying, but only because we are so good at it ourselves. A conspiratorial chortle echoes between us.

'I suppose...'

'At dinner tonight,' she interjects.

'Why is Dumbledore...'

'Only allowing his perception and memories of Hogsmeade?' That habit of interrupting is dead irritating. 'Who knows what you perverse little hooligans would imagine for yourselves? All the angry letters to the Headmaster from parents wondering why their daughters were in the family way, Hogwarts' wards be damned.' _She has a point there._

Even so... 'Why are you here, Tonks?'

'Somebody has to watch over you lot,' she replies. 'Who better than a Metamorphmagus to do it? I can be one of the merchants or a Seventh Year, maybe even a Fifth Year like yourself or a Sixth Year such as...'

'Well, you're busy,' I grumble, 'and I have to get to class.' She nods at the unfinished farewell and makes for the staff room before I call her back. 'Are you bringing Charlie at least?' Mum and Dad said he was back for a short visit.

Her lower lip contorts agonisingly. _Sod._ Don't tell me Charlie hadn't told her. I'd never believe he's as thick as Ron. Perhaps it runs in the family. _Shudder._ I hope not. Bad enough I fall either for blokes who don't know I exist or those who wish I was someone else. Wincing at my error, I move to comfort her but she backs away. They didn't have another fight, did they? Those two are worse than Ron and Hermione at times. 'Er, I have to see Dumbledore about the arrangements,' she mutters as she turns to go.

'Tonks?' Instead of turning around, she quickens her pace, careering, head downcast and shoulders hunched, through the corridor.

Am I cursed?

_**3 February, V-Day minus 11**_

When Dumbledore announced he'd cancelled the next Hogsmeade weekend as well, the Great Hall nearly rioted. _At least he'd momentarily achieved the lofty goal of school unity,_ I thought. Being Dumbledore, he only needed to clear his throat once for the student body to resume their seats. Most students greeted the proclamation that we would be able to visit a replica Hogsmeade within the Hogwarts grounds with equal albeit joyous fervour. Each House would choose which shops they would most like to attend and Dumbledore would arrange what he could with the local merchants. Considering the loss of the lucrative Hogwarts trade, doubtless most shopkeepers would leap at the chance. And the female contingent and their simpering partners will guarantee Madam Puddifoot's will be there, wherever _there_ is.

Today is the last day to place our votes (three each). For me, it's an easy three: the Three Broomsticks, Zonko's, and Honeydukes. Despite my pleading and his denials, I _know_ Neville chose Madam Puddifoot's. He's never been able to lie to me, which would be something of a compliment _if he didn't keep trying_. Berk.

The Limpet still hasn't let him go, excepting the odd meal and trips to their respective common rooms. Five days have passed and Luna's still clinging to Harry's arm like it's a Snorkack or whatever it is. She even started looking a little smug. Any more smug and she'll be a pug like Pansy. Daft bint. To think I was worried about her after that brouhaha over Neville. Never again, I tell you, never again.

Harry resembles the cat that caught the canary – which I guess he has – only that he doesn't seem to be swallowing it quite well. There are moments when he looks ready to flee, or at the very least downright uncomfortable. Serves him right for fawning over Hermione. Speaking of whom…

At dinner she and Ron were behaving positively repulsively, casting sly sidelong glances at one another, holding hands at the table. I'm beginning to wish I'd never pushed them together. If those two gits start using sickening pet names for each other I'll spew all over them. Fortunately, if that can truly be said when confronted by such a sight, they only look like they are about to snog. The urge to boak is almost overpowering.

'Have they started yet?'

However did Harry rid himself, even momentarily, of Luna? I see her goggling at him with that overwrought enraptured gaze. My shoulders tense as I cringe in disgust. Can't anyone behave normally anymore? Am I the only sane one?

'What are you blethering on about, Harry?' He pretends not to notice my irritation and sits next to me. Dean glowers at him, even though my former boyfriend uses it as an excuse to move closer to Parvati.

'Them,' Harry answers with a nod towards his two friends.

'Gone off Hermione now?'

He stares at me as if I'm barmy. _Me_ of all people. Mr I'd-Forgotten-You'd-Been-Possessed. Wanker.

'_What?_' he finally gasps. 'I never...'

'Nice to see you've moved on, though,' giving a nod to Luna across the Great Hall.

'Ginny...' he starts with that same gormless expression, hands out in supplication.

'I've got to study,' I announce, 'OWL year and all that,' rising from the Gryffindor table.

Dean gives me an odd look as well, but a glare and an emphatic nod towards Parvati refocus his attention elsewhere. _Now_ I'm of interest to everyone since they're already taken. Am I to be just their bit on the side? No bloody thanks.

Gathering my books and materials, I retreat to a neglected classroom near the Library where Peeves ensures I'm left unmolested.

I think the dirty old poltergeist holds a bit of a torch for me – eurgh! – or maybe it's just a mentor-pupil sort of thing. He sees me as a potential successor to Fred and George. That and the threat of an exorcism after he tried to hobble Katie just before the season's first Quidditch match against Slytherin. Bloody Baron put him up to it, my arse. The way that evil wee prat goes after our captain, I'm _certain_ that vile beast has some wicked intention towards her, though that might be because the Gryffindor Chasers always were a distraction to the Twins. Competition is everywhere.

I'm woken by a piece of chalk snapping on the bridge of my nose. 'Peeves, you git!' That bloody hurt, the prick.

'Ten minutes before curfew, _Ginevra._' He loves it when my face burns red with indignation at my given name.

'Shall I reveal your proper name to all...?'

'No, Miss Weasley, that won't be necessary,' he pleads contritely.

He escorts me in silence back to the Fat Lady's portrait, creating diversions for Filch when necessary. The Common Room holds greater terrors for me than a simple detention, though. They're at it again, and not alone either. Seamus and Lavender have joined them, thankfully on the other side of the room so I don't lose what little of my dinner I was able to keep down from before. Dean and Parvati are on their way up their respective staircases while Harry... He's sitting in front of the fire glaring at it, whether to make it burn brighter or to extinguish it I've no idea. Still, his eyelids are fluttering as he struggles against the sleep that threatens to overtake him. Going against my best interests, I sit in the chair beside his.

'Hello, Harry,' I enter mimicking Luna's dreamy voice.

He rolls his eyes and glares at me from the corner of his eye. 'Ginny.' Keep it succinct and precise, Mr Potter. He notices the welt on my nose and my chiding expression. One observation cancelling the other, his gaze returns to the fire as a pained frown contorts his features. 'I never fancied Hermione, you know,' he swears. _Could have fooled me._

'What's wrong with her? Was it the big front teeth, the bushy brown hair instead of blond or black? What?'

He shakes his head in exasperation. 'She's a sister to me, maybe even a mother of sorts,' he declares. His words are barely audible over the crackling fire.

'And Luna?'

He emits a sigh that becomes an irritable groan. 'Can't you ever just leave off?' he growls before heading the lads' staircase.

Can't even take a little light teasing. What a git.

I follow soon after to avoid the sight of further snogging and who knows what else, nearly falling over from fatigue myself.

If only I could escape those bloody dreams.


	4. Of Dreams and Secrets

**Of Dreams and Secrets**

_**7 February, V-Day minus 7**_

Sodding Harry bloody Potter. _Bloody bleeding buggering feck!_

Oh _bugger._

You'd think the pillows at Hogwarts would be made of sterner stuff. Instead, I'm pillowless and coated in down.

A girl deserves a decent night's rest. But thanks to the Limpet and the Git that small privilege is denied me. Bloody dreams. Sodding Potter.

The dreams were bad enough...

There I sit, ensconced in that bittermost level of singleton Hell, the Land of the Repudiated. Otherwise known as alone in Madam Puddifoot's – let the groaning commence – facing my exes snogging their current girlfriends. My stomach begins to churn at the sight, but try as I might I cannot rise to leave. They stop their sick-inducing escapades for a moment to discuss me in hideous detail. I keep struggling yet something continues to hold me there in that bloody chair. So, the misery continues for a short while until the door bursts open once more. There he comes, Mr Harry fecking Potter himself, surrounded by hordes of mewling schoolgirls, including the two with my former boyfriends. He accepts their simpering fawning with good grace – seems to be enjoying it, the smug git – before fending them off, apologising profusely and contritely. I look over to Michael and Dean and cannot help but feel somewhat cheered by their expressions of undisguised loathing at Harry's success. In the dream, however, I actually pity them. Don't know where that came from.

Since I had been focusing on the berks, I hadn't noticed that I had a git standing in front of me. Smiling, Harry asks to sit with me. Curious, I assent to his request. Being a dream, the location shifts dramatically from that wretched tea shop to the Common Room. Instead of sitting opposite me or to one side, he alights next to me on a narrow settee before the fire. I can't stop myself from grinning inanely as he takes my hand in his, carefully winds his other hand behind me, prompting me closer as he leans in for a kiss. Then I wake up.

Well, not then, really. It tends to get a little more heated than that, all busy hands, buttons, and...

_Cold shower._ Soon as my bare feet touch the cold stone floor (what would be so wrong about some magical central heating?), the need to drench my entire body disappears.

But dreams are just that, right? Nothing real in them, is there?

Harry sodding Potter. And Luna bloody Lovegood. I certainly hope her last name is a misnomer. She has him in a permanent clench, and he doesn't appear averse to the attention. Seems even to glory in it, the arrogant wanker.

Everyone is surprised by their strange partnership. Ron and Hermione, during those altogether too brief periods when they rise for air, mutter their astonishment at their best friend's choice.

'"Someone cheerful," I said, not someone barmy,' Ron chunters now and then, ignoring Hermione glowering at his assessment of Harry's paramour. Yet I've seen my old friend in heated conversations with the Ravenclaw girl – well, on Hermione's side, at least – outside the Great Hall and between DA meetings on those rare instances when the blonde has relinquished her hold on the git.

Dean shrugs his shoulders in sympathetic disbelief when he sees the Limpet and the Berk together, shaking his head in wide-eyed befuddlement. Parvati gave me a spontaneous tearful hug one day before a DA session, blubbering how sorry she was that Harry's such a clueless twit, earning her a grimace of concern from her twin. Neville's the worst with his sidelong glances and considerate words. We're friends, after all, nothing more. Can't he understand that?

Then there's Colin. He and Padma Patil could give lectures on how to properly grimace in shock. Christmas might well have been cancelled in perpetuity the way he's been brooding. (Maybe he's taking lessons from Harry.) At least it's better than the glaring Colin gives the pair when they are together; that's just disturbing. Adoration should _never_ be mixed with envy. (I'm ever so glad there are no mirrors, especially enchanted ones, nearby.) I'd always thought Colin was heterosexual, especially after his brief adventures with Claudine, our fellow fifth-year from Hufflepuff. One just never knows with Colin, however.

Yet even Malfoy has offered his commiserations. Of a sort. If, 'Good to see that the lunatics are banding together, isn't it,' can truly be termed an expression of sympathy. Though he did say it while sneering, as if I needed that swine's pity anyway.

Finding no sleep, I sneak down to the Kitchens for a nice soporific tea. Dobby's not there – must be busy picking up Hermione's woollen haggis replicas left over from Robbie Burns Day – though I hear Winky wimpering as she drowns her miseries in butterbeer. The house-elves graciously brew me a delicious cuppa and send me on my weary way. Stumbling my way back to the Common Room, something shakes me from my _tisane_ induced torpor, replacing it with worry.

The glow from the fireplace announcing the presence of another insomniac is troubling enough, especially since the usual cause is life-threatening (or exams) and generally affects only two people (three, if you include exams). Since I'm one of them and exams aren't for another few months (as Hermione keeps reminding me) that means...

Harry's there, seated by the fire. His head rests uncomfortably on his shoulder and his eyes are closed. One hand loosely grips a quill while the other clutches a letter or something. Odd, no address. Then again, mail has been disrupted for months. And there's no tell-tale smell of Floo powder. Perhaps it's a love letter. The temptation to laugh confronts the realisation that such a missive is a possibility. The desire to wake him is annoyingly strong, and to read whatever's on that parchment even stronger. Despite his peaceful mien, I doubt whether he would remain so after even a cursory questioning. Besides, I'm too bloody tired to ask. Let him keep his secrets and me mine.

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Next:** A disturbing visit from Mr Churchill... Sorry, I mean...

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Special thanks to those extremely kind people who have reviewed and who have prompted this story along. As you might note from the blurb above, I certainly do intend to extend this story a _little _bit longer than the original four chapters, say perhaps one chapter in between the Valentine's Day fiasco. 


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